


afternoon delight

by vowelinthug



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: on the 7th day, She restedon the 2,193,694th day, they lounged





	afternoon delight

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a tumblr post about gaiman saying they lived in a tiny house after the book/show and not only do i not know if the post was accurately sourced, i also don't remember any of the other details. yet i wrote this anyway

* * *

 

They don’t ever actually fuck, is the thing.

Sure, they’re both a bit curious about it, as they are with most human things. But in the same way they’re curious about, say, ziplining through the Rainforest, or cronuts. They understand the appeal, certainly. But there’s no rush.

Crowley finds sex a bit too -- _Godly_ for his taste. After all, She created humans with the need to have it in order to continue the race, and She made it pleasurable, to provide most humans with the will to live for it. It gave people a universal pursuit, after all, even if some people didn’t do it to fulfill the biological imperative.

Of course, over time, humans found a way to muck it up -- with adultery, violence, prudishness, and farm animals. All things that made Hell cough nervously and collectively take credit for, and would sometimes take advantage of when sinful quotas needed to be met.

Still, people are fucking, more so than ever before, exactly as She designed (more or less) all according to Her ineffable plan. It was all a might too _Heavenly_ for Crowley.

Aziraphale, for his part, declined to partake for exactly the same reason.

But they both are big fans of the end results, aren’t they? Earthly delights. The comforts of being close to one another. The satisfaction in being wanted.

They just explored other avenues.

Well, they sauntered down other roads.

Actually, it was more a stroll down a lovely, leafy country lane, at the end of which was a pleasant cottage, a duck pond, a garden, and a hibachi table.

And Crowley, fast asleep on top of Aziraphale.

He hasn’t slept this well since 1802.

He runs cold, doesn’t he, and angels are basically beings of pure energy -- and _this_ angel is a being of pure energy wrapped inside a cozy, hot-blooded meat body.

It’s like having a life-size hot water bottle. Crowley could spend the whole next century this way.

If only the being of pure hot water bottle would stop poking his side.

“Geroff,” Crowley mumbles, twitching and burying his face into Aziraphale’s soft, bare chest.

“That’s supposed to be my line.” But the pokes have turned into a slight caress along Crowley’s bare ribcage.

Crowley’s always liked clothes. Well, he’s sort of responsible for everyone having to wear clothes, after the whole business with the apple and the shame that followed or whatever, so six thousand years ago, he’d decided to just lean into it. The angels had been walking around, as naked as Adam, but angels are pretty good at rolling with the punches when it comes to the ineffable plan, and had started covering themselves shortly after the expulsion, to gently coax the humans into more convenient means of fashions, other than leaves.

And, well. If Crowley had to start wearing clothes, then he’d decided he was going to look _good._

But now, without the weight of Hell heavy on his back, he felt he could unwind a bit. Uncoil. Get back to his roots.

Not full-snake, though. But certainly lying around, naked, on his belly, soaking up whatever heat he can find -- that’s the _life._

Aziraphale wore less clothes, now, too. Sometimes, no clothes. He’d said it was weird if a fully naked person cuddled with a fully covered one. And besides, it was how Adam and Eve used to sleep, before everything went pear-shaped, and he’d always thought it looked rather nice.  Crowley thinks it’s more the missing weight of Heaven on his back that finally made him lower his suspenders, but he doesn’t say anything.

They found it quite peaceful to fall asleep, skin to skin. Aziraphale’s fingers in Crowley’s hair, Crowley’s breath in Aziraphale’s ear. Soft ankles tangling with boney ones, lying on each other until whole parts of the body are dead and numb, getting too hot in the night and falling apart in their sleep, then getting too cold and coming back together again.

 _This_ is the earthly delight everyone is always searching for, without all the hassle and the fluids.

“I want to make dinner,” Aziraphale says quietly. “You’ve slept all afternoon.”

“That’s what Sunday afternoons are made for.”

“For people with _jobs_ , maybe. Anyway, I think it’s Wednesday.”

“It’s always Sunday in the arms of an angel,” Crowley tries, hoping it’s enough to slip back into sleep.

It’s not. Aziraphale pokes him viciously in the armpit, and Crowley jerks up with a hiss.

Aziraphale smiles up at him. His hair, grown longer and blonder since the Apocalypse, curls softly on the sofa cushion. Late afternoon light pours in from a window, falling directly into his eyes, but Aziraphle doesn’t squint. He’s seen brighter things. He _is_ a brighter thing.

“Come, dear,” he says. “I’m doing a stir-fry tonight, you said you’d go choose the peppers.”

An evil smile slithers onto Crowley’s face.

The cottage is near enough to Tadfield that they can keep a single eye and a single ear (distributed evenly) on Adam Young, who isn’t going to bring about the Apocalypse again, but is still an Antichrist going through puberty, and it’s best for everyone if he doesn’t turn into a complete wanker.

But they aren’t close enough for regular visitors, and only had to deal with Anathema and her strange boy once a month for tea, as well as the local gardening club.

Crowley is not a member.

Away from the city, and with the space to grow, and no wiles to be eventually thwarted, and no people to inconvenience into damnation, Crowley had taken up gardening.

His houseplants (rescued from his London flat) are forever eternally grateful they are not planted in Crowley’s garden.

The abuse he hurls at his vegetable crops would curl a sailor’s hair. The insults he comes up with for his herbs could skin a cat. His fruits wept so often, a religious person might call up a local tabloid about seeing the Virgin Mary in a strawberry. If something came up a little unripe or misshapen, Crowley would stroll through the garden, delicately pluck it from the vine, branch, or stalk, crush it viciously between his teeth, and then spit it out into the soil, in full view of the other crops.

And every so often, just to keep them on their toes, he’d find something that came in perfectly, and then do the exact same thing, only this time, he’d _swallow_ it.

Crowley has won ribbons in the Oxford Township Farming Competition and Show every year since the Apocalypse. His vegetables grow to abnormally large sizes, to avoid being eaten. His fruits look like the plastic kind realtors use in Open Houses, in a vain, misguided attempt to seem unappetizing.

Cheerful members of the local gardening club -- and rivals in the Oxford Township Farming Competition and Show -- had started showing up one day to view Crowley’s amazing garden. They’d oohed and aahed and commented on how beautiful everything was, how wide open and visible from the road, how the garden looked remarkably free from pests and wasn’t that fortunate, but you could never be too careful, dearie, anything could happen.

Aziraphale had listened when Crowley told him about their visit. He’d nodded, said to Crowley how he’d dealt with something similar once. _And then the gardening club had never come back._

Crowley stands up and stretches. Aziraphale watches him move, eyeing his stomach and his arms, and his face looks how he’s always looked. Crowley can’t believe how he used to mistake the fondness on Aziraphale’s face for anything else.

He slides into a pair of black denim dungarees that were bunched on the floor by the couch. Aziraphale had gotten them for him, under the mistaken impression that this is what all gardeners wear. He forgoes the shirt and shoes, and roots under the cushions for his gloves.

One of the nicest things about being a demon has always been being seen only when you wanted to be seen. Crowley can hide even in the busiest, most chaotic crowds.

Aziraphale is leaning back on the sofa, still watching him. Crowley can’t hide here, but only one person wants to look at him, so that’s fine.

Then Aziraphale says, “I’m going to do the onion volcano tonight.”

Crowley drops a cushion. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. Oh, no. Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I can do it this time,” Aziraphale insists. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

“You _think_ \-- your eyebrows have only just started to grow back! Remember how much I pointed and laughed at you when you didn’t have eyebrows?”

“Yes, it was charming.” He blushes. “And _rude._ But I know I can do it. I was thinking it over while you were sleeping.”

Crowley feels betrayed. “You were holding me and thinking about _another_ delicious, flaming tower that makes people cry?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and stands. He stretches, too. Crowley looks, too.

Maybe _this_ is the earthly delight everyone is always searching for. Don’t humans realize how much there is to _see_ in another person?

He watches Aziraphale get dressed. He only wears pale linen pajamas now. Crowley’s trying to get him interested in some silk ones, but Aziraphale claims they’re too decadent.

He hands Crowley a piece of paper from his loose trousers. “Two of each, please,” he says. “And do be kind.”

Crowley’s about to snarl something mean, because he’d had to ban Aziraphale almost immediately from his garden when he’d caught him _apologizing_ , but then Aziraphale kisses him.

Kisses aren’t Heavenly. They’re not required to complete any necessary biological function. Nor are they needed to feel release or pleasure. And they’re certainly not Hell-sent. They can be twisted, of course, made cruel and punishing, made tools of regret -- but Hell has never been creative, and can only warp the things that already exist.

Kisses are a feat of human ingenuity. And like eating good sushi, or looking at the _Mona Lisa_ , kissing reminds them both what they turned on everything for. Each other, both earthly delights.

Aziraphale’s kiss is soft, sweet, distracting -- exactly the way he’s always been to Crowley for six thousand years. Kissing, touching for the sake of touching, is about as close to fucking as they’ll get. Okay, some fluids are involved. Crowley has discovered his snake tongue is still useful after all this time. He’s also discovered angels taste a little bit like powdered sugar that’s been struck by lighting.

At least, one angel does.

Aziraphale is so pale, the flush stands out on him like the first strands of sunrise. He’s got both hands curled around the straps of Crowley’s dungarees when he pulls back. He lets go and starts flattening them down, like they’re creased.

Crowley waits. Aziraphale has yet to figure out how to immediately handle anything he himself initiates.

“Volcano,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice a little hoarse.

“Eyebrows,” Crowley says. He reaches up and rubs one of Aziraphale’s with his thumb, just so he remembers how nice they are. Crowley knows they’ll be gone again by nightfall.

Aziraphale scowls and backs away, towards the kitchen. “It’s going to be _delicious_ and _impressive._ Don’t forget to feed the ducks.”

On his way out the door, Crowley picks up his basket. Inside are his trowel, half a loaf of stale bread, and his sunglasses, which he slides on. It’s a beautiful, late summer evening. They’re close enough to Tadfield that they still get some of Adam Young’s perfect weather.

Aziraphale designed the cottage. On the outside, it looks like every idyllic cottage pictured in every story book, painting, and fairy tale -- small, quaint, with rose vines twirling up white trestles. This is because Aziraphale has only ever really seen cottages from the outside. Crowley is pretty sure the last _home_ Aziraphale had ever lived in had been back in the 1700s, and he’d had a large manor that had been mostly empty except for the room where he kept all his books. There hadn’t been a bed then either. For the last two hundred or so years, he’d been napping in an armchair in the backroom of the bookshop.

Not that he’d ever admit it. “Virtue is ever vigilant,” Crowley’s pointed arse.

So the outside looked like any cottage found in a John Constable painting. The inside, which was quite larger than the outside, held the entirety of Aziraphale’s bookshop, as well the overstocked, recreated kitchens of a French brasserie, an Italian bistro, a Brazilian churrascaria, an American gastropub, a Japaenese hibachi restaurant, and a food truck that serves gourmet grilled cheese. Each one with a large, ever-flowing liquor bar.

Aziraphale had only ever been to Crowley’s last flat once, thirty years prior, so he’d only brought over the things he’d remembered - Crowley’s houseplants, his _Mona Lisa_ sketch, and a black leather couch he’d gotten rid of in 1998. But he’d made sure there was a bedroom, because even though “evil never sleeps,” Crowley likes to, and often. And he’d gotten Crowley a nice, new television, and will sometimes even let Crowley keep it on when he’s in the room.

Crowley’s garden takes up most of the back of the house, and is creeping towards the front. He walks by the Bentley where it’s baking in the hot sun and nods to it, before heading over to the small pond. Unlike the ducks at St. James’s pond, these ones don’t try to be subtle about waiting for bread from conspicuously inconspicuous people in ugly suits. They swarm Crowley as soon as he arrives and won’t leave until he chucks the whole loaf of bread at them.

He stands at the small gate of his garden. There are tomato plants taller than him. Watermelons still on the vine, as big as dogs. There’s a pumpkin the size of his Bentley, that’s going to win him his next ribbon come Halloween time. There’s no breeze, but everything around him begins to shiver as he silently watches. Cabbages curl up to avoid his gaze. Pea pods rattle in their shells.

“‘Be kind,’ he says,” Crowley growls. It doesn’t matter, his voice carries. “And what have you done lately that’s earned my kindness?”

The garden trembles. Crowley smiles. It’s not a nice smile.

He prunes. He picks. The garden weeps. And he talks, because unlike watering houseplants, gardening is a much more time consuming pastime, and a solitary one. Which means he spends a lot of time thinking about _what_ he’s doing, and why. If he’s not spitting vitriol at his lettuce, he can’t help but think about the fact that every time he brings a new living thing into the world, even something like a plant, he steps further and further away from Hell. Before, that had been kind of rebellious and sexy of him.

But now, _everything_ he does is a step away from Hell. It’s what he’d wanted, of course it’s what he wanted. And he and Aziraphale had never been big thinkers of the future (as evidenced by them trying to stop the Apocalypse four days before it was supposed to happen.) He can’t stop wondering, what happens to them, the further they get from Heaven and Hell. Do they become more human? Have they gone _native?_ Will he grow old? Will he have to watch _Aziraphale_ grow old, watch him wither like his broccoli that just refuses to _learn?_

They’ve always been capable of dying. But if they die now, where will they go?

Crowley wrenches a bell pepper from the stalk. It’s beautifully red, shining in the last vestiges of sunlight. He waits until he’s sure he has everyone’s attention, and then takes a bite out of it.

Occult beings, even ethereal ones, as a rule, try not to dwell on the past. Crowley heads back inside, determined to stop contemplating the future. It doesn’t suit him, and anyway he probably won’t have to worry about dying for another six thousand years or so. He doesn’t need to know exactly what he is now, or what Aziraphale is.

He just needs to be there to watch Aziraphale burn off his eyebrows again.

Crowley finds him in the hibachi kitchen, playing with knives. He’s holding one in each hand, and is juggling another knife between the two blades. He makes _whooshing_ sounds with each pass. While he’s still very anti-television, he’d been delighted when Crowley had shown him the exuberant number of DIY and how-to videos readily available on the internet. Aziraphale is very much against technologies, but he _loves_ learning.

He’s been teaching himself how to cook. Unlike the gavotte in the 19th century, tapestry weaving in the 15th century, and the lyre in 1400 BC, this was a skill that might not go out of fashion. They sometimes drove into London for a nice meal at a fancy restaurant, but Aziraphale has taken to cooking like a duck takes to. Something.

Crowley spends a good few moments watching Aziraphale with the knives, watching them flip and fall carelessly through the air. The result, as always, is the biological impulse Crowley has yet to ever act upon. He’s aware of it in a casual way, happy to just enjoy the feeling. It happens to Aziraphale sometimes too, when Crowley helps him re-shelve his books and he gets stuck watching Crowley’s fingers caress the spines.

They’re going to fuck eventually.

They both know it. Curiosity, pleasure-seeking, poor impulse control -- these have always been their downfalls. There’s no reason for that to change now.

But there’s no rush.

Crowley reaches into his basket. “Catch,” he says, and tosses to Aziraphale an onion.

Without missing a beat, Aziraphale slices the onion in the air. Both halves land on the table with a sizzle.

He needs to relearn how to handle the fire bits, but Aziraphale’s always been good with a sword.

“I heard what you were saying through the kitchen window,” he says, as Crowley sits down at the hibachi table. “How can you say such horrible things to that poor, lovely garden.”

“They know what they’ve done,” Crowley says darkly. He goes to hand the basket of vegetables over, but Aziraphale ignores it in favor of sliding Crowley's glasses to the top of his head. Then he grabs the basket, but Crowley doesn’t let go. He leans up quick and kisses him over the heated table.

Neither one minds the temperature. As long as it’s not hellfire, they’ll be fine.

“Is this for good luck?” Aziraphale mumbles against his lips. He’s holding the back of Crowley’s head with the heel of his hand; he’s still gripping one of the knives.  “Because I am definitely doing it right this time.”

“I just wanted one more kiss,” Crowley says, leaning back, but not too far, “before you look like a Raphaelite cherub again.”

“Ugh,” says Aziraphale, pulling all the way back now. “ _Don’t_ talk to me about Raphael. What a pretentious -- _man_.”

“Are you still mad about that bleedin’ fresco?” Crowley settles in to watch Aziraphale chop and fry the vegetables. He knows the tallest of hs garden can see what’s happening through the kitchen window. “You never liked Athens anyway.”

“He stuck me behind _Anaxagoras_!” cries Aziraphale, mindless of the psychological torture he’s inflicting on the tomatos. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Crowley leans back in his chair as Aziraphale starts stacking the onion rings until they form a small, leaning volcano. Maybe _this_ is the earthly delight everyone’s been searching for this whole time -- watching helplessly as the person you love is about to burn off their eyebrows, while they bitch about a centuries-old grievance in a pair of linen pajamas.

Probably not. But it’s not a Heavenly delight, either, or a Hellish one.

But Crowley is delighted all the same.

* * *

 


End file.
